


Speak now child and chill my heart

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Frannie being adorable, Hop, Mental Health Issues, Movie afternoon, PTSD, also fuck canon, rambling thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10675506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: The gas didn't destroy him but he's come to realise that the Mathison women just might.





	Speak now child and chill my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I did not expect to write another one. Truly I did not. I thought I had it out of my system. Apparently Peter Quinn had it in him to suck another story out of me. This exists in the same universe as _Black out the sun_ but you don't need to have read that one for this to make sense.
> 
> Also, WTF _Homeland_???? WHY???
> 
> Title is from _Master of Disaster_ by Seether.

He’s lying on the living room floor with Frannie when Carrie finally answers his question.

 

They’re not doing much of anything - they had been building a Lego castle but Frannie got bored and now she’s watching some Disney movie and her brightly coloured brick creation is half finished and forgotten in front of them. He’s given up trying to build it too.

 

He thinks maybe he's better at destruction than creation. Thinks he knows more about it anyway.

 

But it's okay. He won't dwell on that. Some thoughts are too big for a Saturday afternoon and Frannie’s here and she's sweet and cute and he doesn't really want to worry about anything else right now.

 

Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse.

 

It’s raining outside; a steady beat of water against the windows and the roof and Carrie’s annoyed because the leak she thought she got repaired last week has proven itself to be a recurring problem and she’s mopping the bathroom and trying to find buckets to catch the deluge. He offered to try his hand at fixing it and she said no. Made the point that while there’s pretty much nothing he can’t do, she’d rather leave the plumbing and renovations up to the professionals. He’d given her a sour look, glanced up the stairs and then pointedly at the bill still stuck to the fridge and she’d shrugged in that way she does when she knows she’s wrong but isn’t going to change her mind anyway.

 

And it's okay. Maybe she’s right and he's not equipped to be fixing anything. Maybe he's not _ready_.

 

So she spent ages on the phone giving some poor sap hell only to find that the soonest they could get out to the brownstone was later in the afternoon or possibly the evening … sometime - give or take a few hours. And he could see how much that infuriated her. She’s Carrie, and that kind of tardy, lackadaisical attitude has stuck in her craw since the first day he met her. And he knows what she’s thinking, how her mind works. If she can live on a steady diet of guilt and anxiety while saving the fucking world and raising a child, all the while dealing with her own demons, how the hell can a plumber find it so damn hard to work out a schedule?

 

He has to admit she has a point. Maybe not the one she thinks she has but a point nonetheless.

 

But he’s gotten better at dealing with Carrie lately. And even he has to admit, he’s always been pretty good at it. He doesn’t find her frightening in the way that others do. Sometimes sure - her dedication to the greater good when the so-called greater good is whatever she decides it should be at any given moment, her willingness to go further than she should - above and beyond more than anyone could ever expect - in itself is frightening. His mind might still not be right but he hasn’t forgotten Brody, Aayan. He hasn’t forgotten what Dar told him at the lakehouse and how he knew it was true even though he didn’t want to believe it.

 

Still, he doesn’t find her condition frightening, not the way Brody or Jonas did. And he has to admit it would be pretty damn hypocritical if he did. He’s here after all - here with a broken body and a more broken mind. And no, he’s not bipolar and no, he’s not one to play fast and loose with a moral code as it suits him. But he _is_ fucked up. That isn’t an opinion, that isn’t an armchair diagnosis. He _is_ fucked up. He knows it. And the truth is he prefers to put all of that shit - the brain damage, the PTSD, even the fucking limp - into a big box of Fucked Up and leave it there. It’s easier than digesting the endless medical terms and overly complex explanations his doctors throw out.

 

He’s Fucked Up and he’s okay with that. It makes it easier to think that one day he could be unfucked.

 

It’s not today though. He’s had a bad week. He loses hours sometimes and worse than that he loses words too. Words he knows he had only seconds before. And then there’s the dreams, vivid and feverish and he wakes up and all he can smell is nerve gas and he can feel the cold tiles beneath him as his body slams to the floor and he lies there dying. He’s had two this week. Before, he’d had it down to once or twice a month.

 

The doctor says he needs to stop thinking of healing from this as linear. That he needs to expect setbacks, ebbs and flows and he needs to look at how far he’s come.

 

The doctor is right.

 

The doctor is also full of shit.

 

And maybe him and Carrie aren’t that different after all.

 

 _So_.

 

So he’s lying on the floor on his belly, in amongst brightly coloured Lego blocks and Frannie is next to him, head resting on her arms and arms resting on his arm. She’s fixated on the screen, on  some long-haired blonde princess with ridiculously big eyes which are only being made bigger by some handsome scoundrel and some ill-tempered white horse which Peter’s already decided is the best character this movie has to offer.

 

He knows this story. He knows he knows it. He hasn’t seen the film before but he _knows_ the story. He just can’t remember the goddamn name of the princess in the tower with her hair and the prince who’d climb up it to visit.

 

Or whatever.

 

(He thinks “visit” was a euphemism but that’s hardly a topic of conversation for a four-year-old.)

 

So no, he can't remember the name. He thinks it lingers somewhere in the fruit or vegetable, maybe the flower category. Something like Persimmon or Clementine.

 

He could ask Frannie but he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to disturb her or bother her. Doesn't want to let her know how badly broken his mind sometimes is.

 

That’s not to say she'll judge. That's not Frannie. Not at all. She’s great. Funny and sweet and sympathetic in a way he can’t really credit her mother with. And sure, that might sound mean and it might sound callous but he’s stopped lying to himself about Carrie. She’s difficult. She’s dogged. And she can be the hardest person he’s ever met. But she’s also good and kind. Determined. Wonderful.

 

Wonderfully and hopelessly flawed.

 

He also tries not to judge. Until he does.

 

But Frannie... Frannie is something else. She’s sharp and insightful. Funny. And she makes him feel like the world isn’t falling apart and the darkness isn’t closing in. She takes him at face value - her grown-up friend who sometimes talks a bit funny and isn’t always fast enough to catch her in games of tag.

 

(He used to be fast. He used to be so _so_ fast. His leg twinges at the thought.)

 

She's forgiven him too. Not just because she’s four and not just because she’s a sweet girl. She’s forgiven him because she wanted to, because she’s not afraid and he gave her a solemn promise that he won’t do what he did that day of the riot again. That he won’t frighten her. And that’s the fucking hill he will fucking die on if it comes to it. Frannie Mathison and everything she holds dear is always safe with him.

 

Always and forever.

 

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, her little arms on his big one, a bright red ringlet against her cheek and her eyes huge as she stares at the screen.

 

She’s not a child. She’s a fucking godsend is what she is. And, despite everything, he knows it’s a goddamn privilege that Carrie still lets him stay here, lets him anywhere near Frannie after the last time - after what happened. After he brought a fucking SWAT team into the house, after he shot at people and threw a woman down the stairs.

 

After he made little Frannie Mathison scared and broke her mother’s heart.

 

He's a piece of shit. A broken, lost, no-good piece of shit and some days he doesn't think that will ever change.

 

The truth is he didn’t mean it. Intellectually he knows that now. Intellectually he knows he never meant to scare anyone; that his brain was cracking wide open and making him do shit that he would never have done otherwise; that the gas in his head became a demon that possessed him and changed him on what he can quite justifiably call a cellular level. Intellectually he knows he can’t be held responsible for his actions and even if he sometimes forgets that he gets a lecture from Carrie about it once a week at least. He gets almost the same lecture from his shrink whenever he sees her and on the rare occasions that Saul stops by, he gets it again. So yeah, his instructions on how to be lacking in guilt are topped up fairly regularly.

 

Instructions are one thing though, actually moving on and forgiving yourself is quite another.

 

And yeah, it’s been a bad week.

 

But he can feel the gentle pressure of Frannie against him now and he wonders if maybe it could be getting better.

 

And that’s when Carrie walks in.

 

He’s been listening to her upstairs. Listening to her moving buckets and grabbing towels to mop up the mess, listening to her frustrated sighs and stomping. But somehow he missed her coming down and for a brief and insane moment he wonders if she also does Frannie’s butt crawl to navigate from the top of the house to the bottom. And he knows it’s fucking ridiculous and that there’s really no fucking way that’s what happened, but the thought of Carrie shuffling down the stairs on her ass has him grinning against his arms, letting out a gentle laugh that makes her purse her lips, scowl a bit.

 

He expects her to have another rant about the leaking water, the quality of service these days. He expects her to get that tone, the one she used with him not too long ago when he told her he was always like this - always dark and broken with sarin gas trying to find its way out of his brain and steal him piece by piece - and she yelled and told him it wasn't true. That tone that's indignant and aggressive and mostly he thinks it plays into her belief that the best form of defence is attack.

 

So he’s waiting for her to tell him the same story about the repairman not doing his job - he’s actually preparing himself for it and judging by the atmosphere she brings with her into the room, she is too.

 

And then… nothing.

 

Silence.

 

Carrie Mathison watching him and Frannie all snuggled up in front of the TV. Carrie Mathison seemingly at a loss for words. And he can count the number of times that’s happened on one hand.

 

His eyes flicker to her briefly, but he doesn’t linger. Carrie and him have made a lot of progress and he thinks on some level he might have even started to consider the idea of forgiving her, but the darkness of what she did still lingers between them.

 

He thinks it might always linger between them.

 

He’s always loved her more than she loves him. Of that he has no delusions.

 

So he doesn’t look too long.

 

In front of him on the TV the princess is swinging around on her hair much to the exasperation of her apparently dapper and suave scallywag of a companion. Behind him Carrie Mathison is sinking down on the couch, barely making any sound as she does, and he can feel her eyes boring holes into the back of his head. But he lets it be. He doesn’t turn around.

 

She can speak when she's ready. It's more than he can say for himself sometimes.

 

In the meantime he can lie between the Lego and feel Frannie gently breathing on his skin and, in his own completely and utterly fucked up way, he’s content.

 

Maybe Carrie is too because she’s quiet behind him and all he can hear is the sound of the rain beating against the windows and the Disney princess singing about Seeing the Light. And if that isn’t the most ridiculously appropriate thing he’s ever heard then he’s name isn’t Peter Quinn. And it’s not, so he’s not really sure what that means other than his brain is a mess and he’s fucked up and he’s not going to be unfucked today.

 

So they stay there, three sets of eyes - two of which have seen far too much and one that he vows and declares never will - all enthralled by the bright colours and chirpy voices, the thunder rumbling outside.

 

He guesses they're about halfway through the movie when he feels Frannie stir next to him, little huffs and, if he looks at her out of the corner of his eye, he can see her brow knitting together and a little frown forming at the edges of her features. She's too young to be frowning. She really is. But it's adorable anyway.

 

“Peter,” her voice is half serious, half singsong and he lifts his head, looks at her properly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Peter, can I get a pet?”

 

And again she has that way of making all the air disappear, sucking it out of the room and into herself. Again she has that way of making her voice the only sound in the world and making him want to live and die all at the same time.

 

He's vaguely aware that she's saying something about a _real_ pet. Not like a chameleon and he thinks she's referring the the princess’ reptilian companion. But she doesn't want one of those. She wants something else. Like a kitten or a puppy… or maybe a bunny.

 

And he knows there are things he's supposed to say to this - the first being to ask her mom, because _Jesus fuck_ this is a big decision and he's just a lodger and he can't possibly answer this question for her. It's not his house. It's not his life. He's here by Carrie’s good graces and a large dose of her guilt. He gets no say, no voice. She could tell him to get the fuck out right at this second and he'd have no goddamn choice.

 

No matter how much he might want it he's not part of this family. He's _not_.

 

And yet… and yet Frannie’s looking at him like he is. Like he _matters_. And sure, it could just be that kid thing when they think that all adults have all the answers. It's not like Frannie doesn't know they're not related.

 

Still, she's looking at him like maybe he should be. Like he's more than a grown-up friend. More than someone her mom knows.

 

 _More_.

 

Something _else_.

 

He doesn't say the word. He knows it but he won't say it.

 

He can't.

 

Not that.

 

“Peter?” she says again and the world rushes back into focus so fast he has to take a breath, close his eyes and behind him he can hear Carrie shifting on the couch. And he knows she's not worried. Not yet.

 

She’s just ready. Ready.

 

Just in case.

 

And maybe she needs to be, because it feels like he can't breathe and it feels like that gas is filling the air again and he's sure that's anise he can smell.

 

Except it's not. And Carrie doesn't slam into his back, hold him down while she figures out what's going on. And soon he can hear the rain again and the singing, feel Frannie’s arms on his.

 

And it's okay.

 

In fact it's more than okay. It's almost _good_.

 

And there's a part of him that wonders if the problem isn't _bad_ things. Not things like guns and soldiers and gas that you drown in before you die. Maybe the problem is _different_ things. Unexpected things. Maybe if he can just breathe long enough to tell the difference it'll be okay.

 

Like this.

 

Because this is okay.

 

More than okay.

 

This is _good_.

 

And he looks at Frannie and she's looking back expectantly, something like hope in her pretty blue eyes. Brody’s features but Carrie’s face. Down to the last detail.

 

And he has to say something. He has to. Something that's not going to put Carrie in an impossible position but also isn't going to dash some four-year-old dreams.

 

“Seems to me,” he says and has to clear his throat, swallow the lump he didn't know was there. “Seems to me you already have a bunny.”

 

She cocks her head, looks at him suspiciously and _god_ it's just like looking at Carrie.

 

“No I don't,” she says.

 

“Sure you do. His name is Hop.”

 

She regards him silently for a few seconds, biting her lip, and then she rolls her eyes like he’s slower than she thought.

 

Maybe he is. Sometimes he thinks so at least.

 

“Hop isn't _real_ ,” she tells him.

 

“Sure he is,” he reaches for the bunny who's been abandoned amongst the Lego. “He's right here.”

 

She sighs in her little four-year-old way.

 

“He’s a _toy_ ,” she says as if he really is old enough to know this himself. “I want a bunny that’s alive.”

 

“Oh,” he says like this is news to him. “And what are you gonna call him?”

 

Another exasperated sigh and she lifts her head from her hands to look at him, her face right up close and her breath hot on his cheeks.

 

“I'm gonna call him Peter.”

 

He feigns shock.

 

“But that's _my_ name,” he says and she giggles cheekily like he’s finally caught the joke.

 

The truth is he expected this. She forgets nothing and she's been begging him to read the story of Peter Rabbit to her for a few days now. Apparently it's very important that _he_ does it and not Carrie, because when she tried she was given her marching orders in no uncertain terms.

 

“Peter. Peter. Peter,” she says like she's trying it out and then bursts into a fit of laughter, clamping her hands over her mouth and rolling onto her side.

 

And it's such a good sound. It's such a _fucking_ good sound and _so so so_ much better than the little heartbroken sobs he remembers from when he locked her and the nanny in the bathroom. So much better than the little whimpers and the whines when he told them they couldn't leave.

 

He's starting to think there's probably not a better sound in the world than Frannie Mathison's happiness.

 

And he takes the opportunity to turn towards her, poke her belly and make her laugh even harder. And she does, her little giggle turning into a full-blown evil cackle as she playfully grabs at his hands.

 

“I'm gonna call him Peter and feed him carrots and lettuce and…” she breaks off giggling again when he tickles her, cheeks turning bright red as she covers her stomach and rolls onto her back.

 

“I don't think Peter wants lettuce and carrots,” he tells her. “He wants hamburgers and steaks and pizza.”

 

And she’s laughing so much she can barely get the words out but she manages to tell him that bunnies don't eat burgers or pizza and then he's chuckling too, more at her than anything else. Because she's just so fucking happy and so fucking pleased with herself and he can't help but get caught up in it.

 

Behind him he can hear Carrie laughing too, nothing hearty or heavy but a small little happy sound she makes that he's come to know as her version of genuine joy. She's never really been one for belly laughs and neither has he. But he is now and maybe one day Carrie will catch up. She must already know what she's got here. She must know this gift this child is.

 

He thinks she does. There's many things Carrie chooses to ignore. Many ways in which she can be hard and cold and selfish. But not with Frannie. Not at all. Frannie brings out something in her he's never seen before. No, not the mother bear protectiveness, that's always been there is one way or another; nor the determination to succeed and do the best for her, that's something else that she's always done. But rather a lightness, an empathy, the realisation that sometimes the greater good isn't always what you think it is.

 

He only wishes she had known that a year ago in Berlin.

 

But he's not going to think about that now. Maybe forgiveness will come, maybe it won't.

It won't be today - in the same way he won't be unfucked today and he won't stop limping today and he won't stop dreaming either. Today he's going to watch Rapunzel with Frannie and _yes, dear god yes,_ that's the fucking name and it's here and he's locking it into his head and he won't fucking forget it again.

 

And he doesn't.

 

And it seems like a long time before Frannie stops laughing but he doesn’t mind because he doesn't want her to stop. He thinks he could listen to her all fucking day if it came to it. And when she does she rests her arms back on his bicep, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, face still close to his and they carry on watching princesses and scoundrels and horses with attitude problems.

 

Together.

 

Like a _family_. Almost.

 

And _god oh god_ he still doesn't want to jinx it and say that word - not even in his head - but this is what it is. And maybe he can have it. Maybe. Just for an afternoon _maybe_ he can. Later tonight he’ll go back to his bed and he’ll take a shower if he’s feeling particularly brave and he’ll try to sleep and try not to picture the inside of that cell where he died. Because he did die. He did. Nothing and no one is going to tell him that just because his heart carried on beating and his lungs carried on breathing the poisoned air that he didn’t actually die. That’s a lie. That’s nothing but a filthy lie because the Peter Quinn that once was - the charming personable one - did die. And he’s all that’s left - a man made out of rage and gas and fear, ptsd made tangible.

 

But maybe he’s made out of something else too. Something good.

 

He can almost believe it as he lies on the floor with Frannie Mathison while the woman he loves more than anything else in the world - more than he _should_ \- is sitting behind him, watching him. Needing him. And again he can feel her blue eyes drilling holes through his greasy hair and into the back of his head, and frankly there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

 

So they watch. And the rain beats down and the princess sings and eventually Frannie’s eyes grow heavy as the afternoon wears on and he’s not surprised when he feels her slumping against him and her breathing becomes hard and regular.

 

He shifts a little so that she can rest more comfortably and her head isn’t pressing on the bone of his elbow. He could stand up, he could lift her but he doesn’t want to. And, if he’s totally honest, he wants to know how the fuck this goddamn movie ends.

 

It’s always good to know when things end well.

 

Behind him he hears Carrie shift on the couch, clear her throat. She wants to say something, he can feel it in the air, almost hear her trying for the words and failing. Trying again.

 

And he’s thinking _Just be honest Carrie. Just be fucking honest and say it. Drop your goddamn bomb. Drop it._

 

She does.

 

With exquisite precision.

 

He wouldn’t have expected anything else.

 

“This...” she says, trails off a little, comes back harder than before. “This is why I saved you.”

 

A glance at her. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat, hands on her knees and she’s watching him in that way he’s only seen once or twice, that way she has when she’s completely open, laid bare.

 

_(I can’t lose you. I won’t allow it.)_

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She looks away, blinking rapidly and it doesn’t hurt him to see her cry. Maybe she needs to cry as much as any of them.

 

“I saved you for me Quinn,” she says and it’s probably the most honest thing she’s ever said. “I saved you because I couldn’t lose you.”

 

_(You have no fucking right.)_

 

Other people would see the lie, the hypocrisy of her words. He does. But he doesn’t say anything because sometimes Carrie’s truths are hard, sometimes her truths are lies too. But not this. This is different - you have to know her to see how; to let all the contradictions that make up Carrie Mathison sit side by side in uneasy harmony. But he does know her. And he does see how. And it’s not hard for him even with his slow mind. It’s not hard at all.

 

“I saved you because you deserved this. And Frannie deserves it too.”

 

And he aches. He fucking aches with it; feels himself turning inside out and his guts and the gas spewing itself dark and viscous onto the carpet. _Drop your bombs Drone Queen. Drop them. Grind me into the dust and destroy me with them. Bomb me into that fucking parking lot and end me now. Because this is harder than dying._

 

She doesn’t say anymore but it’s enough. It’s enough. And he doesn’t know whether to hate her or love her more for it. She’s confusing and difficult and a mess. But she’s also good and decent and she believes what she’s saying. And he loves Frannie. He would die for her. He’d put himself back in that fucking cell and turn on the goddamn gas himself for her.

 

He’d do it for Carrie too. He knows he would. One day he might even be happy to. One day he’d welcome that he could make a sacrifice for her again. But not today. Today isn’t the day he gets better or gets unfucked or manages to forgive. But he looks at Frannie sleeping on his arm and he thinks he’s getting closer.

 

~~~

 

He doesn’t move off the floor until long after the movie is over, doesn’t want to disturb her but she stirs when the repairman rings the doorbell and Carrie goes to answer it.

 

She’s disoriented, blue eyes droopy and a sheen of drool running from her mouth to her chin, no doubt soaking his sweater but he doesn’t care.

 

He lifts her carefully, standing slowly on wobbly legs.

 

“Come on,” he says. “We need to get you to bed.”

 

She nods sleepily and wraps her arms around his neck, presses her face into his shoulder, mumbling something about something that he can’t make out.

 

He holds her close, his hand big enough to cover most of her back and he takes her upstairs - one step at a time, no butt shuffle necessary - and lays her down in her bed, tucks Hop in next to her.

 

He doesn't kiss her goodnight.

 

And as he’s heading for the door he hears her again and he’s not sure if she’s more asleep than awake and it doesn’t seem to matter. When Frannie Mathison has something to tell him, there’s nothing he can do but listen.

 

So he turns in her doorway, faces her but he can’t see her eyes.

 

“Peter’s gonna be a _real_ bunny,” she whispers. “A real one.”

 

It’s another punch in the guts and for a second he can’t breathe. She’s as good as her mother at destroying him with a few words. Better maybe. It's fucking worse than that goddamn gas because this doesn't steal parts of him away. This doesn't break him. Instead this forces him to pull himself back together; to restitch his mind and his body, his bones, his brain, that place in his heart he was happy to keep empty. This forces him to _try_.

 

And somehow that’s the worst thing that has happened today and also the best.

 

He can take it. He _has_ to. It’s not like he gets a choice.

 

“He’s gonna be alive,” she whispers turning onto her side and burying her face in Hop’s fur. “He's gonna be _alive_.”

 

_Yes my dear sweet sweet girl, he will be. For you he will be._

  
  
  
  



End file.
